


Take Me Home

by TheGreenMeridian



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Depression, Don’t copy to another site, First Time, M/M, Melancholy, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 02:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenMeridian/pseuds/TheGreenMeridian
Summary: As the day to leave the ships comes ever closer, James finds himself dealing with his regrets.





	Take Me Home

**Author's Note:**

> My second effort for this fandom, and my first with dialogue. I hope you’ll enjoy it!

James turns to a new page of his book, knowing full well his concentration is too poor to have read any of the previous one. It’s a theatre piece really, feigning his usual bedtime routine in an attempt to persuade his mind to rest. His mood has been in a steady dive for weeks, possibly months, and while he’d like to put it all down to the effects of polar night and perhaps the trauma of carnivale, he knows it’s more than that. He is in command of a ship, he owes his men good morale and high hopes, yet he is no longer capable of either. While once he would have mourned losing the chance for the glory of discovering the Passage, he now mourns himself and his men. Francis had been correct, they should have made for safety while they still had a decent chance. Instead, they are trapped here with meagre supplies, even fewer of which are safe to consume, and he has blood gathering on his scalp and bruises decorating his chest. And selfish as it is, he cannot help but get lost in his myriad regrets now he is faced with the likelihood of his own premature death.

If he is honest with himself, he’s always been as prone to these bouts of melancholy as Francis seems to be. A life spent hiding, crafting a persona to show the world that he’s of value despite what his biological father may think, despite the cruelty of his name; it’s taken it’s toll on him. It’s hardly conducive to forming true friendships, always being overly aware of himself and hiding behind stories of gallantry, and after a while, he even began to believe his own vain bluster. There are things he wishes he could have allowed himself. Bridgens, he believes, has found ways to sneak happiness and love into his life regardless of the laws of man and God, but then Bridgens is a man without pretence and artifice ruling his life. For James, it had never felt possible to risk himself in such a way, with so many other secrets to keep. More than that, he has so despised having yet another aspect of himself to keep locked away that he simply couldn’t bear to bring himself to act on his sinful desires. It is bad enough to be a bastard and a fraud, without also being a sodomite. Perhaps worst of all is the shape his formerly vague and untethered desires have taken of late, being directed at the worst possible candidate and providing him with any number of dangerous things to imagine and yearn for in these lonely nights.

A knock at his door has him dropping the book to the floor, and he begrudgingly hauls himself from his bunk to see who’s disturbing him. When he opens the door to find Francis, he’s not sure if he’s afraid or relieved to see that familiar face.

“Are ye going to let me in then, James?” he asks, and James steps back to wave him into the room.

“Apologies, Francis. What did you need?”

Francis gives him a queer look, that damned eyebrow quirked and those sharp eyes reading him far too well. “There’s something that needs discussing.”

“Well, can it wait until morning? I’m awfully tired Francis, I’m afraid I shan’t be of any use to you now.”

Uninvited, Francis takes a seat and fixes him with a stare. “You’ve been in bad spirits lately, James. Don’t deny it. I want to know why.”

“It’s nothing,” he says, pasting an empty smile on his face. “Nothing that will affect the crew or the mission, I promise you that. Likely just a simple bout of melancholia brought on by polar night, that’s all.”

“I wish to hear what troubles you, James. Whether you think so or not, your wellbeing is as important to me as is that of the men.”

“There’s nothing to hear, Francis, honestly. Leave me to rest, I’m sure I shall be fine.”

The smile on his face feels more transparent than ever, and from the way Francis sighs and leans forward, it’s obvious he has noticed its falsehood.

“Something troubles you, James, and I’ll not leave until you tell me what it is. As your First I have a right to know. As your friend, I wish to help.”

He had been so afraid to use such a word to describe his relationship with Francis, even within the safety of his own mind, so to hear the man so casually call himself a friend is a welcome shock. It warms him, soothes some of the ache he has been feeling, but only furthers his resolve to politely shoo Francis from his quarters without sharing his troubles.

They’ve been growing closer since Francis’ illness. The man’s moods have mellowed and the inherent kindness in his character has become more apparent since he crawled out from under the fog of spirits, and James has come to admire him greatly. It’s with that admirable kindness that Francis now regards him and the concern in his friend’s gaze makes tears prickle at the back of James’ eyes.

“Francis,” he pleads, “allow me the dignity of keeping my counsel.”

“No, James. This has gone on long enough, and I won’t have it last a moment longer. I wish you to be well, and you are quite clearly not! Please, James. Speak to me.”

He feels his face crumple at the soft, pleading way Francis says his name in that poorly disguised brogue of his, and he sinks to sit on the edge of his bunk. “This march across the ice is a fool’s errand, isn’t it?”

“It won’t be easy. I’ll not lie to soften it for you, you know as well as I do what the state of our provisions looks like. And the chances of us all making it home are damnably slim. Is that what troubles you James?”

“In effect. I’ve faced death before, and bravely I might add.” Francis snorts and James glares at him before continuing. “But I’ve never had to stare it down from such a distance and I find myself struggling with all the bloody time I have to think. It makes a man mull over his regrets too deeply.”

Francis moves to sit beside him, and places a warm hand on his arm. It’s a small gesture, barely noticeable under the layers of clothing, but it’s no less breathtaking in it’s tenderness. “You may share them with me, James. Unburden yourself.”

James sighs, a terribly dramatic sound even to his ears, and makes himself meet Francis’ eye. “Truly Francis, there’s too many to tell and none of them resolvable now.”

“Perhaps not. But I’d hear them anyway.”

“They’re all such silly things, you’d laugh.” He gives Francis another weak smile and is warmed by the stronger one he receives in return.

“I’d not,” Francis says with a squeeze to his arm. “Not anymore, not now.”

Francis won’t be dissuaded, that much is clear. And James is so exhausted. “I just wish... I wish I’d allowed myself love. With my career and... other considerations, it never seemed appropriate. And now I’m faced with the prospect of my death, I find myself wishing terribly for memories I could comfort myself with when... when the time comes. It’s awfully pathetic, I know.”

“An understandable regret, to be sure,” Francis says softly, “and one I believe I share.”

“But Miss Cracroft-“

“Miss Cracroft might well have loved me and I might well have loved her, but there’s little comfort to be found in a love like that.”

A familiar melancholy is tight around Francis’ eyes and James longs to reach out and rub it away with his thumb. He’s a handsome man, especially without the whiskey putting bitter scowls on his face and ruddying his cheeks. James has always thought so, even when their relationship was antagonistic. That divot in his chin, the shape of his brow, that stern countenance. He’s no artist’s model, not one to draw praise as James is himself, his looks are far too rough and Irish for that. But he is handsome just the same.

“Were there truly no sweethearts in your life?” Francis asks.

“No. No, not really. I had an infatuation of sorts when I was a young man on but it was rather one sided on my part I’m afraid.”

“One sided? You mean to tell me there’s girls out there who don’t swoon at the feet of the great James Fitzjames, handsomest man in the Queen’s Navy?” His tone is teasing, a good-natured smile on his face, and James cannot resist smiling back.

“Apparently so. Besides, we’d said barely two words to each other if we’d said anything at all. Still, I rather fancied myself in love at the time, as ridiculous as it sounds.”

There’s an odd grimace on Francis’ lips for a moment, before it disappears and is replaced with his previous expression of honest interest. James feels weak under the watch of Francis’ eyes, so expressive and such a delicate shade of blue. He stands and walks over to his window to look out across the jagged landscape, struck by how beautiful it seems even as it torments him.

“I’m just so damn lonely, Francis,” he says quietly. There’s no melodrama in his voice, no great heaving sigh or childish whine. Just resignation. Francis comes to stand beside him, close enough that their arms touch and as they look at the view together, James finds he can close his eyes and imagine they are somewhere else. Some pleasant cottage perhaps, looking out across the rolling green hills of the English countryside. It’s a foolish fantasy for many reasons, but it’s one he enjoys. Francis by his side, a life built together. A warm fireplace for evenings spent in each other’s company, shelves of books to read to one another, a garden in which to while away sunny afternoons.

“Share your thoughts?” Francis asks softly. James’ eyes open slowly, reluctantly. The spell is broken, they’re Captain and Commander of a failed expedition once again.

“Home,” he replies. “Just home.”

There’s a gentle pressure on his elbow, and Francis turns him until they stand face to face. The lamp light makes Francis’ thin blond hair look almost white, and somehow shiny as spun silk.

“I will do my best to get you there.” There’s as much sincerity in his face as there is his voice, but more than that, there’s a resolve that sends shivers down James’ spine. He’s seen Francis set his mind to a task before, seen the dogged determination and stubborn refusal to give up. To have it directed at him brings a flurry of emotions that prove to be the final straw for his tattered nerves.

With the trembling lip of a child, he feels the first sob escape his chest and before the second has a chance to form, Francis has gathered him into an embrace. It’s awkward, layers of clothing proving uncomfortably bulky and brass buttons catching against each other, but it’s wonderful all the same. He lets himself weep against Francis’ shoulder as his head is stroked. It’s humiliating, really, but he can’t find it in himself to care. It’s a long-needed release, perhaps since long before they even left port, and Francis’ steady presence provides only comfort and assurance. 

“You’re alright, James. I’ll see you through it,” Francis murmurs into his hair, pressing an almost imperceptible kiss to his crown. He cries a few minutes more, until he feels the pressure within him eased enough to stop.

“You’re much too indulgent of me, you know,” he says, sniffing and pulling away. “Here I am morbing on about my bloody love life while we’ve got so many more important things to concern ourselves with. Thank you, Francis. I believe I shall be alright now.”

James gives another weak smile and watches as the cogs turn in Francis’ head, praying that the man will take the offered exit and leave him to his thoughts.

“Tell me about her. The woman you were infatuated with.”

There is of course no way to answer that without either lying or giving up his secret, and James knows that he’s in no fit state to manage the former and utterly unwilling to do the latter. Still, Francis is looking at him with interest, wanting to know more of him, and the aching loneliness in his chest is crying out for him to bare himself to another and allow himself to be seen for once. He tips his face towards his feet, hair falling loosely around his face and making a curtain between him and the world. It’s an old defence mechanism, one leftover from childhood, and one he has never entirely grown out of.

“James?” Francis says, placing a finger beneath his chin and tipping his face upwards again. “There’ll be no judgement here tonight.”

“Why do you so desperately wish to know all this, Francis?” he asks in a small voice.

Francis’ eyes are locked with his own. They’re mere inches away from each other, one small lean forward and he could kiss the lips that have been so cruel and so kind to him. There’s something in Francis’ eyes that seems to speak of more than the concern of a friend. James knows it should be written off as the mere delusion of a lonely invert, but Francis’ fingers are still under his chin, and those of the other hand are reaching forward to brush his hair behind his ear.

“It wasn’t a woman you were taken with, was it?” Francis asks softly.

“No,” he whispers. He can’t look away from Francis’ face, those eyes boring into his soul with such intensity. He’s as a stone and Francis is his Medusa.

Francis leans forward, a hair’s breadth from kissing him. “Tell me to stop, James, and I will.”

There’s no choice but to close the remaining gap and claim Francis’ lips with his own. He feels strong arms slide around his waist and pull him close, feels Francis’ sturdy body against his own, broad and powerful. The kiss is slow and delicate, a hesitancy in both of them tempering his immediate lust. It’s quite possibly the most intimate moment of James’ life.

“Oh... oh Francis, I never knew you were...” he says, shuddering as Francis moves to nuzzle at what little of his neck there is not hidden by fabric.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, James,” Francis says quietly against his skin. “I’ll corrupt you.”

“With my blessing.”

A kiss, light and tender, lingering as though Francis cannot bear to pull away, is pressed to the underside of James’ jaw. It’s arousing to be sure, but more than that, it’s done with such obvious reverence and disbelief that James could weep again.

“You don’t know how you’ve tormented me. How badly I’ve wanted you,” Francis murmurs. There’s longing in his voice much akin to what James feels in return.

He had not known what it would feel like to be gifted with such regard from a man of Francis’ intensities, but he could never have expected the almost unbearable rawness of it.

“Tell me,” he whispers. “I wish to hear it.”

Francis holds him close and takes a deep breath through his nose as though inhaling James’ scent. “I think of you every night, wishing I could know your warmth. You occupy my thoughts far more than you have any right to.”

James grasps at Francis back and kisses him again, deeper and with more urgency than before. It’s messy, unpracticed, but the hitch in Francis’ breath as James licks into his mouth removes all traces of insecurity James feels about his lack of prowess. He tangles a hand in hair he has longed to touch and it’s as silky as he dreamed it would be. Francis moans, stifled against James’ lips, an agonised sort of noise from deep in his chest. It has James’ fingers tightening in his hair and deepening the kiss, letting his tongue dip into the gap between Francis’ front teeth. It’s a feature that he’s been drawn to from the beginning, an almost boyish sweetness about it so at odds with the rest of Francis that it serves to emphasise his masculinity rather than detract from it.

Francis manoeuvres him backwards onto the slim bunk until he is on his back with Francis cradled between his legs. There’s ample evidence of Francis’ enthusiasm pressed against James’ own and he whimpers in a most pathetic manner at the feeling, so often imagined yet never before experienced. There’s so much to want that he scarcely knows what to do. He wishes to feel Francis bare against him, to see for himself what the man’s arousal looks like, to lick and nip and suckle every inch of him and be equally attended to in return.

Francis looks down at him, shy and unsure of himself. “Are you certain you want me, James?”

“You think I don’t?”

“I think it’s been a long, hard voyage, and you’re lonely. I won’t... I won’t deny you James, but I’ll not stand to be used.”

James sees in that moment the hurt and rejection the poor man has been carrying with him throughout his life, of which Sophia Cracroft is surely only one in a long line of contributors. It’s painful to see, Francis already retreating behind walls even as they lay together like this, and it’s something James understands far too deeply.

“I want you, Francis.” He’s regarded with scepticism, so he reaches for Francis’ cheek and caresses it, attempting to express how much he cherishes this broken man. “Just you, darling. Only you.”

When their lips meet again, it’s bliss. It’s more than James imagined it could be, when he’d allowed himself to imagine it at all. Francis’ sturdy weight atop him, surrounding him. He whines and spreads his legs a little wider, enjoying the slight stretch it takes to properly accommodate Francis’ bulk. If it were not for the increasingly insistent throb between his hips, he would be content to lay and be kissed indefinitely, so enjoyable are the sensations. But the need for more is undeniable, and as Francis pushes down against him with a deep groan, he knows that he’s not alone in his urges. Outside of his control entirely, his hips attempt to rise off the bed, grinding hard into Francis and producing a choked back whine from the man.

“Christ... James, I’ll spend in my bloody trousers if you keep that up.” Blood rushes to James’ cheeks and a jolt of arousal shoots through him at Francis’ coarse words. Francis takes in his scandalised face and laughs, placing a kiss to his forehead. “I’d never have taken you for a prude, James. You’re a navy man, surely you’ve heard worse than that?”

“It’s not... I’ve never had such language directed at me,” he says. 

“Does it bother you?”

“...In a sense.”

The cheeky smile that springs to Francis’ lips takes years off him, and James can’t help but wonder what the man would have looked like in his youth, if he would look as roguish and handsome as he does in this moment. He shivers as Francis moves to his ear, his breath warm and wet on his skin.

“I’d have you bare beneath me, James. I’d spread your lovely long legs, admire what you have to offer me.”

James groans and bucks up, the need that has been gathering in him becoming far too intense. He positively aches to be touched, the firm press of Francis’ prick against his own providing far more frustration than relief.

“Francis,” he begs, “please, just... anything!”

Francis looks down at him with bemused affection. “I really inflame you so much?”

“Evidently you do!”

“Tell me how to please you, then. I’d do anything you asked of me.”

He doesn’t have an answer for that, never having had the opportunity to learn what would please him, and so he pulls Francis down into a kiss as means of distraction. Francis’ back is broad beneath his hands, wonderfully masculine and even beneath clothing it’s clear he’s not let himself go to seed as men his age in the Navy often tend to do. He imagines that Francis could still scale the rigging or haul ropes as easily as a man half his age. Francis is stout and stocky, naturally solid. James himself is lithe, shapely, and while he’s always been quite pleased with his figure, he greatly enjoys the differences between them. Hesitantly, he moves a hand down Francis’ back and lets it rest on his arse. And oh, what an arse it is. Muscled, plump, flexing beneath his fingers as Francis rocks against him. 

“Dear god Francis,” he moans, “you really are magnificent.”

Francis flushes at the compliment, beautiful in his awkwardness. “You must have had finer men in your bed than I.”

It would be easy to lie. To pretend he’s had men and women alike, encounters that are far more exciting than a handful of drunken attempts with harbour doxies in an ultimately futile effort to not have one more bloody thing about himself needing concealing. It would be easy, yes, but as the expression on Francis’ lovely face changes into one of concern, he finds it is not something he feels prepared to do.

“You look troubled. James... we may stop at any time,” Francis says, stroking James’ face with the tips of his fingers. “You need only ask.”

“I don’t wish to stop, Francis. Believe me, this is something– you are someone that I’ve wanted for quite some time.”

Again, Francis’ cheeks become rosy, and James feels his heart swell at the sight. “Then what-“

“I’ve not done this before,” James blurts. “I mean... well, as surprising as it may sound, I am almost entirely new to this.”

“Oh,” Francis says. “Oh. That’s... hmm. And you want to?”

“I should think that would be quite obvious, as it were,” he mumbles, shifting uncomfortably.

Francis gives him a look of surprise that morphs into an unbearably sweet smile. “You are full of surprises, my James.”

The possessive article is not missed by James, and he smiles back. To belong to this man in some manner, it’s a dream, surely. At this awful point in his life, surely the fates would not grant him such a joy. 

“Have me, Francis. Show me.”

Francis drops a kiss to his cheek, and it’s sweet and loving and so beautiful James could cry. “Move up. Sit against the wall.”

He does as he’s told and swallows harshly when Francis moves to rest his head on his thigh. He strokes his fingers through that beautiful blond hair, and tries not to whimper as Francis begins nuzzling at his length.

“Oh- oh Francis, that’s... hmm,” James says, letting his head fall back.

Francis merely chuckles and moves to unbutton his trousers. Gently, reverently, they’re pushed down his hips along with his linens, and his prick is freed to the cool air. 

“Christ James...” Francis breathes. “You are exquisite.”

Before he has a chance to react to the compliment, Francis’ lips fasten around his weeping crown and he sucks. James gasps, forgets how to breathe at the intense wet heat of it. His hips rise from the bed, instinctively chasing the sensation. And then, Francis does some wonderful flicking motion with his tongue against the sensitive slit, and he hurriedly pulls the man off.

“Sweet Lord, not yet,” he says through gritted teeth. “Not yet, oh Christ, I...”

Gradually, the throbbing tightness in his stones begins to lessen somewhat and when he no longer feels on the edge of spilling, he opens his eyes to see Francis grinning at him smugly.

“That good, hmm?”

“Oh, be quiet,” he pants, and Francis chuckles softly.

“You need not hold back, you know,”

“I don’t want it all to be over so quickly.”

Francis quirks that damned eyebrow at him again, and strokes him slowly from base to tip, his fingers teasing the edge of James’ foreskin. “I’ll go slow, then.”

‘Slow’, James quickly realises, means Francis tonguing his stones instead, taking each into his mouth in turn, sucking gently at his sac and pressing a thumb to the space just below, firm and unforgiving and stimulating some part of him he never knew existed. His prick is dripping, every press of the thumb sends fresh drops of slick trickling from his tip. An attempt to stroke himself is stopped immediately.

“Francis, god... I’ve never felt... Please, darling, let me...” he says, writhing beneath Francis’s touch. 

“Do you want to finish, love?”

“I... oh christ, just keep touching me like that.”

Francis grins up at him, and James feels a shock ripple through him at the sight of Francis’ lips slick with saliva. He watches in disbelief as Francis suckles on his foreskin, before gently unhooding him and sliding his mouth down his length. The thumb beneath his stones begins rubbing firm circles, and Francis’ tongue swirls around him in a rhythm to match. James has never felt anything as wonderful before and he longs to close his eyes to help cope with the intensity, but he can’t. He cannot bear to miss a moment of seeing his prick between Francis’ lips, seeing Francis’ eyes closed and watching the way the man moans around him. It’s a sight he never dared hope for and it’s quickly becoming the only thing he wishes to see ever again. Francis takes him deeper, the tip of his prick is nudging at Francis’ throat, and he can feel those quiet moans vibrating through him with every bob of Francis’ head. The hand he has in Francis’ hair tightens and he tugs at him in warning, feeling the pleasure building and building and knowing he’s not going to last more than a few seconds longer, but Francis is not to be moved. Francis sucks a little harder, presses his thumb a little firmer, and James’s eyes finally clench close.

“Francis, I... oh fuh- oh Lord, I’m... Ah!”

He flies over the edge, spurting hard into Francis’ waiting, willing mouth. The pleasure is everywhere, making his toes curl in his boots, and his jaw clenching. Never in his life has he spent so hard, so copiously, and Francis is swallowing every drop and stroking and sucking him through it. It seems unending, unbearable, until finally he slides back to himself, a boneless mess half out of his trousers. He opens his eyes open a crack to see Francis licking a drop of spend from his lips.

“Dear god...” he groans weakly. “Francis, that was...”

“Shh, relax, James. Rest.”

“You don’t want...?”

Francis chuckles. “Oh, I do. Believe me, I do. But I can wait, or take care of it myself.”

James reaches for him clumsily and pulls him into a kiss. He can taste himself there, a bitter-salt musk on Francis’ devilish tongue. The hard line of Francis’ prick is pressed against his hip, and despite Francis’ assurances, he can feel the man grinding against him. He slides a hand between them, and cups it through the fabric of Francis’ trousers, earning a groan of arousal. Francis is thick, almost threateningly so, and he is struck with the urge to wrap his fingers around it properly and map the dimensions of it.

“Let me,” he says against Francis’ rough cheek. “I want to feel you, please.”

Francis moves off him just long enough to get his braces off his shoulders and his trousers down to his knees. He yanks James to a flat position again, the show of strength rather thrilling, and guides James’ hand between them. The sheer girth of him is shocking, and James moans at the feel of it, solid in his hand and slick with need. He pumps it slowly as he would his own, feeling the satin-soft skin and savouring the weight of it.

“Oh... ‘s good. Mmm. I’ll not last,” Francis bites out. James looks up at his face, the pinched brow and the way his jaw is set firm.

“You are beautiful, Francis. And this-“ he gives the prick in his hand a firm squeeze “-is glorious.”

Francis groans and pushes into his fist. “Christ James, I’d take you right now. Slick you up and- oh fuck- push into you, split you open.”

Again James blushes at the utter filth issuing from Francis’ lips and had he not just had the hardest spend of his life, he would be ready to go again. Surely his body could not accommodate Francis’ length, it does not seem at all possible but he knows for sure that if Francis will have him again, he will willingly do his best to take it. James speeds up his strokes, kisses Francis’ neck and nips at his ear. 

“That’s it, my darling,” he whispers. “Let me bring you there.”

“‘M close, Christ, ‘m... ah Jesus, fuck!”

With a final buck of his hips, Francis is pulsing in his fist and spurting hard across his body, soiling his shirt with thick ropes of his seed. James strokes him through it until Francis shudders and pulls his hand away, collapsing into him with a grunt and burying his face into James’ neck. James knows he should care about the mess, about how there can be no decent way of explaining away the stains to their respective stewards. But he feels so utterly debauched, marked as he is as Francis’ own, and the soft pants against his neck feel so wonderfully intimate, that he simply pets Francis’ hair and holds him close. 

“My Francis,” he says softly. “How ever have I lasted without you?” 

Francis mumbles something, too muffled to hear properly, but the way the man takes his hand and squeezes, a calloused thumb stroking over the inside of James’ wrist, the meaning of his words is clear. They must clean up soon, and Francis must return to his ship, but as James lays beneath the comforting weight of another for the first time in his life, he finds himself unable to worry about anything much at all.

**Author's Note:**

> thegreenmeridian.tumblr.com


End file.
